


Fugue

by littleroom (neophyte)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:00:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neophyte/pseuds/littleroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey, his hands working the magic that his smile teases to offer. All his attention, all his affection– everything from the twinkle in his eye to the gleam of his wet lips trained on Peter Burke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue

**Author's Note:**

> The verses at the beginning and interspersed between the story are from Pablo Neruda's _A Song of Despair_. The song Peter quotes at the end is Louis Armstrong's _Kiss of Fire_.

  
_It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour  
which the night fastens to all the timetables_   


The world is a smoother place when Neal Caffrey’s clever fingers dance upon the keys of a piano.

He plays an entire song, each note lingering in Peter’s wine-fogged mind (he’s really not a wine guy, he’s never been), each one tender and fraught with a sweet romance that Peter can taste on his tongue, much like the wine: decadent and full of promise. Neal Caffrey, his hands working the magic that his smile teases to offer. All his attention, all his affection– everything from the twinkle in his eye to the gleam of his wet lips trained on Peter Burke.

June’s ten million dollar view is, if possible, even better at night, but Peter already knows this. He’s used it to woo his wife. He’s seen it while drinking with Neal, reminiscing intertwined histories, cementing them with new bonds, inebriated ones, and hopefully stronger ones. And yet, tonight is different.

It’s different because Neal is sitting alone under a full moon like an expensive painting begging to be stolen and Peter’s afraid the illusion is going to be shattered any moment and he’ll learn that this is a carefully crafted scene, a con in progress, everything from the inky blue sky to the sheen of Neal’s hair artfully forged by his graceful hands. And, the worst part is, he’s hoping against hope that that won’t be the case. He’s really tired of catching Neal and he’s even more tired of not trusting him.

“It is a cruel world where playing Chopin elicits nothing from you,” Neal complains, stopping mid-note. “Really? Nothing?”

Peter shrugs. It sounds like elevator music to him. If elevators were dimly lit and filled with intimately set tables where lovers met to whisper sweet nothings to each other. Still, he couldn’t bear to say it aloud, especially because of how it would offend Neal. On the other hand, the expression was priceless… and ridiculously alluring. Peter holds his tongue.

“How’s the wine?” Neal asks, getting up to move to the patio chair Peter’s lounging on.

Peter considers it. It’s fruity and it goes down too smooth. It’s blurring the hard edges of the world into soft corners, all blue eyes and pink skin and dark hair. He doesn’t like it. He prefers the solidity of beer, the belch in its gulp. “It’s alright,” he says.

Neal’s probably wasted some fancy, expensive bottle on him. Peter appreciates it, appreciates this whole evening and he sees it for what it is: a prelude to something horrible. His gut detects something ominous about the whole thing, like there’s a gun lurking behind the roses or a chainsaw tucked under the piano’s lid. At least Neal’s feeling guilty enough to lavish all this on him before, Peter suspects, he leaves. It’s fairly obvious. This is Neal’s way of saying goodbye. At least this time he gets one.

His chest aches. Must be the wine, doing funny things to the heart. So Peter sets the glass down. That’s enough of that for now then. He’d choose to live to drink another day.

Neal sits down beside him and sighs gustily. New York twinkles above and around them elegantly; the perfect backdrop of a city for the perfect con of a man. _That’s not fair_ , Peter thinks. It’s been enough time and maybe Neal has reformed. Maybe he’s just going for an innocent, crime-free holiday. Maybe Neal will unwind doing normal touristy things. Maybe he'll have sultry sex on the expanses of a Spanish beach, admire (and resist the temptation to steal) the art in a Dutch palace, drink and dine along the scenic Italian coast.

“Peter,” He says and here it is, the gunshot, the chainsaw’s rev, Neal’s big, heartbreaking confession, and “There’s something you should know.”

Peter hears the words twice, the second time an echo bleeding off the first. Neal’s voice is hushed and conspiratorial and Peter wants the secret to warm his blood, but it sets off a shudder. He really doesn’t want to hear this.

“Let’s hear it.” Peter’s voice sounds flat and disappointed even to him. All that FBI training for undercover assignments and it takes half a bottle of wine and sweet-talking, piano-playing charmer to undo Peter’s walls. For this and for everything else, stealing from the world and the soft recesses of his heart, Peter resents Neal so much.

Neal casts him a sidelong look and holds it long enough for Peter to turn to him. He wants to snap, but Neal’s expression is so careful, now Peter has to know. He’s never been able to resist a secret. Turn over every stone, learn everything about him, catch him twice, never trust him, trust him wholeheartedly and then inexplicably, fall in love with him. That’s the whole package, as advertised. Neal Caffrey, living up to all the PR.

“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve saved me a lot of times and I wouldn’t be here if not for you. So, thank you,” Neal says, looking into his eyes. It is the truth; Peter knows it, just like he knows it _is_ goodbye. He feels vaguely sick.

“The Palazzo Sasso.” Peter says finally, staring at the piano framed by fairy lights.

“What?”

“Perfect, wasn’t it? Everything you wanted to have in your life and share with the people you cared about. Sorry I inadvertently chased you outta there.” Peter picks up the wine glass (maybe he is a wine guy, maybe he just needs some more to soothe the unnatural prickle in his throat). He can’t resist adding, “You might enjoy it more now that you’ve honestly earned it.”

For a moment, Peter wishes he were the person Neal would want to ride off into the sunset with, gold under the saddle and the world at their feet. He’d never accept, but the offer would’ve been nice. Nice knowing that Peter was the one Neal was senselessly, recklessly in love with, the one Neal would break out of prison for. He can’t be that person though, since he put Neal in prison for those dreams. He gets to be the voice of reason. Peter’s what keeps Neal here and when he thinks of that, he prefers being the anchor. He wants to be what ties Neal to the real world because down here, within the lines and all the rules, he’s safe and he can care about Neal without falling in love with him.

“I know this isn’t something you particularly enjoy,” Neal says, his voice edged with a sharp inhale, all the signs of great restraint, like he wants to, but he can’t spill his big secret, “Unless you’re alone with Elizabeth, but I really felt like celebrating with you.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be a free man.” Peter nods, speaking pointedly. “So why the premature celebration today?”

“Are you asking me if I’m going to leave?” Neal’s tone is as unreadable as his expression. Peter takes the bait.

“I’m asking you if you’re saying goodbye.” He speculates, suddenly fascinated with the wine swilling in his half-empty glass.

“You know,” Neal says, sounding pained enough that Peter looks up, “I’m not.”

“Why not?” Peter demands.

“I–I don’t know.”

“Why not, Neal?” Peter tries a little more gently.

Neal smiles and it looks wrung out and helpless and sad. When he speaks his voice is a rasping whisper. “You know why.”

“No I don’t.” Peter’s stomach feels like it’s turned to lead. They’ve had this conversation before. In his mind’s eye, Neal’s back is to the airplane, his hesitation tantalizing, the choice tearing him apart, tracking tears down the smooth lines of his face. Delicate snowflakes flutter to the ground, a twisted, contrasting prelude to the explosion. The sound like a punch to the gut, the wall of flames, Neal’s horror a sharp cut to Peter’s heart and the white, buzzing deafness of shock, fear and ultimately, grief.

And here, under the stars, smiling like an angel, Neal says, “Because you’re the only one who can convince me to stay.”

And here, letting the shackles go, Peter says, “Then this time, I won’t.”

“Peter, _please_ ,” Neal begs and he’s crying, he really is, blue eyes rimmed red and there’s no way to know what he’s asking for.

For that Peter can’t decide if he wants to kiss him or kill him, so he settles for shaking his head. “Nothing I can do anymore. You’re a free man, Neal.”

Neal sniffs, stands up and turns away to dry his tears. Sufficiently composed, he tries to speak a few times before managing, “Dinner?”

Peter counts it as a small victory. Reducing Neal Caffrey to one-worded questions. Doesn’t happen everyday. And soon, seeing Neal Caffrey will become a thing that doesn’t happen every day. Their conversation turns idyllic, the food is suitably exotic and clearly cooked by Neal and by the end of it all, standing at the door, Peter can feel the walls slamming down around his life. It’s over. He doesn’t look back.

On the drive home, he thinks of the color of the FBI files and his office with the glass windows. He thinks of looking down at the floor and not seeing Neal at his cubicle, never again watching him walk up in a diabolically attractive suit and a matching smile.

El takes one look at him when he gets home and wraps her arms around him and says pitifully, “Oh, honey.”

Something about it is off, though. Peter only notices it a second before it hits him. Her heart hammers in her chest and she squeezes him and whispers, “Surprise!”

And behind her, hands in his pockets, looking ridiculously pleased with himself is Neal Caffrey.

 

  
_Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,  
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies_   


 

“Ah, a month of mortgage frauds. Slow February.” Neal murmurs, leaning against Peter, reading the file in his hands from over his shoulder.

Indeed. Slow as the burn of Neal’s skin under his suit pressed to Peter’s shoulder. It’s a familiar and comforting weight, not the slightest bit distracting. In fact, Peter finds himself calming to the touch, especially when Neal slides a palm along the inside of his forearm, curving around his elbow. He lingers for a moment and then deftly reaches for the file. Peter breathes a little easier, feels more centered by the gesture; he’s both supported and depended on.

Body language, Peter thinks, and then envisions Neal Caffrey sliding his slick hands down the front of his pants.

On the outside, this is all innocent. Neal’s a charmer and it’s no secret. People at the bureau are used to his secretive smiles, the indulgent touching, the piercing burn in his blue eyes when he focuses his attention and the way he saves the best of his charm for Peter. They’re immune to it. Peter thought he was. Apparently not.

He really needed a new case. A good one. Something exciting to get the blood flowing so it wouldn’t drain southward every time Neal slipped a pen into his mouth.

“What?” Neal whispers, a frown drawing his brows together.

“Nothing.” Peter replies reflexively and then sighs. “No, you’re right, this is boring.”

Neal sits in the chair in front of Peter’s desk, earnest pleasure written on his face. He’s here and he looks delighted about it. “I wasn’t complaining.”

“But I am.” Peter rubs the fatigue out of his eyes. “Five mortgage fraud cases in a row. Your friends are being suspiciously quiet. Isn’t there some con underway out there that I should know about?”

“Aww, you’re bored.” Neal looks thoroughly amused. “Alright, I’ll keep an ear out on the street. Put you out of your misery with something interesting.”

“You do that.” Peter says, standing up and getting his jacket on, already thinking of a comfortable night with a couple of beers and a game. He stills when Neal’s fingers circle around his wrist, a shackle of hope and heat.

“Hey,” Neal says, conspiratorial whisper intriguing Peter despite himself, “How about spending some time at my place, Peter? I’ll let you watch the game.”

He doesn’t let Peter watch the game. Peter knows when he’s being conned, but this is not quite that. Neal breaks out the bottles of wine and beer, eases into a wife-beater and a faded pair of jeans and begins to paint at the easel. It’s not a famous painting, at least not one he recognizes, so Peter relaxes. There’s something soothing about watching Neal paint. His attention is focused elsewhere, so Peter can study him undisturbed. He cuts a tempting figure, fingers leading to tensed muscles, tip of the tongue pressed to his lips, pupils blown in concentration.

He finally gets it when Neal takes a break, sitting down opposite him, face flushed.

“You’re seducing me.” Peter blurts. He watches as the expressions shift across Neal’s face and mentally tries to count how many beers he’s had. It’s complicated.

Neal scoffs, looking uncertain. “Peter, we’re friends.”

Peter leans forward, hands crossed on the table, eyes narrowed; this is now an interrogation, part of an ongoing investigation. “Are we? Is that what we are, Neal?”

Neal looks a little shell-shocked. Then offended. “I’m not so sure anymore. You tell me.”

“I’m married.” Peter says matter-of-factly, a warning and a threat all at once, and that should be it.

And somehow, a while later, he’s drunker still and Neal’s hands are in his hair, smelling like canvas and oil paints and it’s surprisingly comforting. Peter wants to argue but Neal speaks before he can. “Make an exception. There’s case law. Precedent.”

When Peter looks at the painting again, completed, he sees himself, hands braced against the railing, standing outside his office. He can’t quite tell what his expression is supposed to be. Depends on who he’s looking at. He shares a look with Neal, who seems satisfied with it. Or, maybe it depends on who’s been looking at him.

“I don’t look like that,” he drawls, a mess of limbs on Neal’s couch.

And he thinks, Chopin, expensive wine, a painting of his office, and now, his head in Neal’s lap, Neal’s fingers in his hair, and look at that, he got to watch the game after all. He really can’t complain.

February dies under a slew of mortgage frauds and one unimaginative jewelry heist. Neal has managed to spoil catching criminals for him. Then, all too suddenly, it is the first week of March and Neal has brought him an amusing and maddening treasure hunt and helped him through it.

Neal looks at him, triumph bruising his cheeks with color, and says somewhat hesitantly, “Peter, if I asked… would you come with me?”

“Where?” Peter asks, watching as agents milled around them, neatly folding everything into Ziploc bags and cardboard boxes.

“Somewhere far away, somewhere better.” Neal whispers, leaning in close, chest to Peter’s, chin over his shoulder, palm hovering above his hip, “We take the treasure and run and we never look back.”

Peter chuckles. “Or we could stay here. And not go to prison.”

Neal’s shuttered look of disappointment is what does Peter in. _You asked me_ , Peter thinks, _I'm the madness in Neal's life, the reason for it all_. It catches him like a sudden overwhelming vertigo and then it's gone, replaced by something shapeless filling him down to his fingernails.

In the weak evening sun, by the violinist in Central Park, the euphoria threatens to bowl him over so Peter fights it down until he can press his lips to Neal’s, let the exhilaration lift them into long, light moments of tongue and lips and Neal tracing wet vowels along his palate.

Then there’s everything else about the moment. The way Neal smells, his expensive suit wrinkling in Peter’s hands, tree bark scraping against his back, the heady smell of new leaves and the peripheral chill tingeing the delicious heat of Neal’s mouth.

This is perfect. It’s terrible and perfect and he wraps Neal’s expensive silk tie around his fist and pulls him closer.

“Peter,” Neal gasps, wet and hot, his narrow hips in Peter’s hands and this is what damnation feels like, Peter realizes, because Neal looks so young and fraught with energy (FBI lights all red and yellow dancing in his darkened eyes). He’s going to go off like a supernova and he’s going to take everything from Peter’s life.

“– wanted this so long, Peter,” Neal’s hands come up to his face, grounding him, keeping his mind here, on Neal’s worried blue eyes, and swollen lips, “Don’t hold out on me. Please don’t take this away from me. “

“Let the devil take tomorrow...” Peter says slowly, words coming to him like a foggy memory, the tinny sound of a needle hitting vinyl and Neal stares at him, confused. “Love me tonight.”

Neal slumps in his arms, something between a laugh and a sob catching in his chest. He presses his forehead to Peter’s, sweet relief making him pliant. “Burn me.”

 

  
_And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.  
And the word scarcely begun on the lips._   
\- A Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda   



End file.
